It All Started With A Text
by silvannight
Summary: When a coffee date takes an unexpected turn, Sherlock and Molly work together to solve the mysterious Cohan Conundrum. Sherlock Holmes is an unpredictable man. But if one thing is for certain, it is that he holds a special place in Molly Hooper's heart.
1. Chapter 1

Molly slumped into bed face first. Her feet hurt, her head ached, and she smelled like formaldehyde. Molly let out a low groan. She bunched up the covers around her like a cocoon, already half-asleep, when her phone buzzed in the dark. It was a quick little buzz, the kind that jolts you awake and catches you off guard. Molly rolled over and squinted at the text she received.

"Coffee date tomorrow. Asking but also telling."

Molly leaned against her pillow with a smile.

"No asking needed. 10 AM." She texted.

"Good. And bring a butcher's knife." He added.

"Sure." Molly typed. She was used to this sort of thing. Last time, she had to burn 27 diluted solutions with a flamethrower. A butcher's knife was a relief. Shutting her phone off, Molly closed her eyes and fell asleep.

A honking taxi woke her up.

"Oh, stop it." Molly yawned. She shut her eyes against the light streaming through the curtains. The taxi driver continued to blare his horn down the way; and the used A/C unit she'd bought off of Amazon clinked and clattered away in the corner. Here she was, living her best street apartment life. Well, maybe not _best_ life. Broken sinks, weird smells, and monthly rent weren't exactly what Molly had in mind for her best life. However, these things formed life as she knew it. That stability was comforting.

Molly stretched her arms and fell back on her mattress, feeling the springs bounce her up and down. She sniffed her sheets. Great. Now they smelled like formaldehyde.

"Yay," Molly said, "More laundry!" As she stripped the sheets off her bed, Molly remembered last night. Coffee. With Sherlock! She ditched the blankets and turned on the shower. After spending considerable time belting out Defying Gravity offkey, Molly stepped out of the shower. Wrapped in a towel, she scrolled through Pinterest. Then she noticed it was now 9:54.

"Oh. Oh no. Oh my-" Molly screamed as she slipped on a puddle of water. She threw her hair up into a wet mess of a bun before desperately attempting to slide jeans onto her damp legs. Without thought, she grabbed the nearest sweater and ran to the door. Snatching her purse off of the kitchen table, she put on her heavy coat and went out the door. Molly stopped. Remembering the text, she scrambled back inside to yank a butcher's knife out of the wood block. Wrapping it in a dish towel and stuffing it into her purse, Molly dashed outside. She was a sight to see running down the street. Careening around the corner to Speedy's, she stopped to catch her breath before opening the shop door. The place buzzed quietly. Looking around, Molly saw a couple of construction workers in the corner, a business woman with a cup of tea, and a barista cleaning the counter. She looked at her phone. 10:13. And no sign of Sherlock. Confusion turned to frustration as she went to text him.

"Ah, Molly. Good morning!" Sherlock came in behind her, standing in a blue bathrobe and slippers. He hadn't touched a comb in days. The businesswoman glanced up and frowned before looking away.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, looking around at the coffee shop. "Really?"

"Hmm, were the slippers too much?" he said. Molly glanced down to see two fluffy llamas with sombreros adorning his feet.

"Sherlock, We're in public," Molly shut her eyes.

"And?"

"Just...pretend you care, ok? I _ran_ —"

"—late. I know. Your hair's wet, your sweater and pants don't match—unusual since you plan all your outfits the night before—and your cheeks are red from sprinting the 5 blocks from your flat to mine." Sherlock said off-handedly. He did a double take. "You look—"

"—Atrocious. I know. Thanks for rubbing it in." Molly said.

"—Radiant." Sherlock said. "Your face, I mean. In a good way." Sherlock looked her in the eyes.

"Oh." Molly chuckled. "Really?"

"Really," Sherlock said. "So, did you bring it?"

"Right here." Molly tapped her purse.

"Good." He said.

They approached the barista, who looked between them briefly with a raised eyebrow and stepped up to the register.

"Morning. What'll it be?" She asked.

"Two coffees." Sherlock said. "One black with 2 sugars, the other with 3 sugars and milk. Oh, and do you have any whipped cream?"

"Sure do."

"Put a bit in the second cup." Sherlock looked at Molly while he spoke and gave her a half smile. She elbowed him playfully.

"How did you know about the whipped cream?" She asked.

"Canister in your fridge. There's a coffee stain on the dispenser." He looked forward.

Molly put her arm through his and smiled. "Your bedhead is really cute, you know?" She murmured. Sherlock opened his mouth for a playful retort when barista returned.

"Here you are. Two coffees."

"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking one cup in each hand.

"Come again." The barista waved.

Molly sat down at a free table. "This'll do nicely." She said, brushing off some crumbs. Sherlock sat down and slid her cup across the table.

"How's Rosie?"

"She's with John today, thank goodness," Molly sipped. "I finally got some sleep after surviving work yesterday."

"Survived?" Sherlock remarked.

"It was so frustrating," Molly complained. "There must have been a mixup...I don't know. The whole thing's a nightmare. I found a needle in a body's thigh, so, naturally I reported it to the Coroner. He came in, and poof! No needle. Something happened, Sherlock. I didn't take it out or anything, and there wasn't even a puncture wound. Anyways," Molly exhaled. "I'll definitely hear about it later. Some intern probably brought in some new cadavers before I was done."

"I'll look into it later for you. Might even be interesting." Sherlock said.

"Thanks," Molly said. "And about the knife. What did you need it for again?"

"Right! Yes." He slapped the table. "Come with me."

* * *

 **Author's note** : Hi guys! I hope you enjoyed reading this. :D It is the first of a two-part story/one shot thing. Can you relate to Molly? I know I can. I'm always running late lol. What do you think Sherlock is getting Molly into? Leave a comment and we'll see what happens!

~Yours Truly,  
silvannight


	2. Chapter 2

Molly got up and followed Sherlock out of Speedy's into 221B. "So um," she said, shutting the door behind her. "Why ask me for a kitchen knife? I mean, why not use yours?"

"Can't," He said. "Mrs. Hudson got rid of them all."

"Why?" Molly asked warily.

"For some reason she doesn't see knife-throwing as a proper substitute for shooting the wall," Sherlock sprinted up the stairs in his llama slippers.

"Well it's not, if that's what you're asking," Molly blinked a few times.

"Then what do you do?" Sherlock walked into his flat and turned the corner into the kitchen.

"To my walls?" Molly shut the flat door behind her.

"When you're bored."

"Paint?...Cook?...Not rip up my landlord's wall?" Molly glanced from side to side.

"Sounds boring," Sherlock called.

"Maybe you should try it."

"Mmmm ok."

"You won't will you?" She said.

"Nope."

"I'm going to regret this later," Molly said, handing him the wrapped knife. Sherlock flashed her a wink before removing the towel off the knife with a flourish.

"8 inch, non-serrated butcher style. Perfect," Sherlock tossed it into his right hand. "Oh, and can you get the feet out of the fridge? They're in the fresh drawer," Sherlock carelessly gestured with the blade as he spoke.

"Feet?" Molly gulped.

"Yes, feet. In the fresh drawer," he said matter-of-factly.

Molly summoned a small mountain of courage. Upon opening the fridge, she wrinkled her nose. The stench was awful, even for her.

"Um, where did you...get these?" Molly held the bag away from her face.

"Hm?" Sherlock put on some latex gloves.

"The feet. Where from?" she repeated.

"Oh, right," He raised his eyebrows. "London PD. Lestrade owed me a favor. Lots of favors actually, but—"

"Ok," Molly dropped the Ziploc bag on his cluttered table and grimaced.

"Take these," Sherlock handed her a pair of latex gloves. Molly slipped them on as Sherlock unzipped the bag and analyzed the feet at eye level. He sliced the back of the heel open.

"What do you see?" Molly asked after a while. Sherlock paused, still thinking.

"Can you put them on the floor?" Sherlock stood up and walked to the other side of the table.

"Sure," Molly held her breath as she did.

"The victim's name was Albert Cohan, found dead in a local forest," Sherlock began. "When I visited the scene, he was face-up, with a bullet in his chest and lacerations in his feet. The police ignored me, called it a gunshot murder, and were about to close the case, but—"

"But?"

"Lestrade suspected there was more to it. He called me over, and that's when I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The feet. Now, why go for the feet?" Sherlock held the knife up in the air as he paced. "The police assumed there was a tripwire, but there wasn't one. It would have had to penetrate his shoes and socks, judging from the wound. A tripwire? Unlikely. Our man was being chased."

Molly felt herself transported to a dark forest, and pictured a man sprinting away through the brush.

"The pursuer fires off a gun," Sherlock continued, immersing himself into the crime scene. "Causing Cohan to turn around and duck for cover. That's when the accomplice made his move."

"The accomplice?" Molly knit her eyebrows together.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "This crime couldn't have been committed by one person. When Cohan turned to look at the gunman, the accomplice, a much more athletic individual, ran up and sliced his ankles from behind, judging by the downward angle of the cut," Sherlock squatted and drew his finger down towards the feet.

"How do you know it was two people?" Molly knelt down beside him.

"Two sets of footprints, one of them staggered apart," Sherlock spoke like lightning. "The gunman couldn't have executed the cut because he has a limp. Which is why he needed the accomplice to incapacitate the victim first."

"He needed someone to keep Cohan from getting away," Molly parted her lips in understanding.

"Right," Sherlock said.

"So, do you know who did this?" Molly asked.

"Say that again," Sherlock looked towards her out of the corner of his eye.

"Um...Do you know who—" Molly began.

"No, not that. Before that. What did you say?" Sherlock turned and pointed at her.

"I think...yeah. I said he needed someone to keep Cohan from getting away. Why?" Molly said.

"Getting away…" Sherlock deliberated. "Getting away...Getaway...Getaway!" Sherlock leapt into the air. Charging into the living room, he whipped out his phone and began texting.

"Sherlock? Is everything ok?" Molly stood up.

"I'm telling Lestrade where they're going to find them next," Sherlock hit "send" confidently.

"Them? Who's 'them'?" Molly came over to where he stood.

"The Getaway Grangers," Sherlock said. "They're a pair of entrepreneurs turned serial killers after one of their business partners left them in debt. Together, the Grangers have murdered 7 key figures in the British marketing industry within the last 2 years. And now Lestrade's going to bust them at a Costco," Sherlock chuckled. "Merry Christmas, Molly!"

"Sherlock," Molly closed her eyes. "It's the middle of April."

"A pair of serial killers in April! It might as well be Christmas." Sherlock tossed his phone up and caught it.

Molly laughed in disbelief. She plopped herself onto the living room couch and lay looking up at the ceiling.

"Well, I'm glad you solved it," she said, finding it to be the only positive thing she could think of saying. Sherlock sat down beside her.

"I know," he smirked.

"You prick," Molly rolled her eyes.

"That's me."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed her. Electric. Candor and warmth combined. She could taste the semi-sweet coffee lingering on his lips. Allowing herself the feeling, she kissed him back. She gazed into his eyes and smiled; for them, time had stopped a moment. Then, with that same beguiling smile, Molly whacked Sherlock with a pillow.

"Ow!" he reeled. "What was that for?"

Molly laughed maniacally. She slid on her socks across the wooden floor, turned the corner, and slammed the door shut. Sherlock grabbed another pillow and pursued. He tried the door handle, but it was locked.

"Open it!" He pressed.

"Not until you tell me what happened with that needle thief at my hospital!" Molly said.

Sherlock leaned against the door. "I think you'll find that the Coroner was paid off to cause you the trouble."

"He was bribed?" Molly said.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He was involved in a political scandal in Switzerland and the body you were examining was someone his patron wanted to sweep under the table."

"Mmmm, I call BS on that one," Molly called from behind the door.

"What?"

"You heard me. BS," Molly said. "You're lying."

"Alright I did. I took the needle."

"What?" Molly threw open the door, slack-jawed.

"Gotcha!" Sherlock grinned and walloped her with his pillow. A flurry of dull thuds and yelling erupted from the scene as they clashed.

"What do you mean you have it?" Molly shouted, as she pushed him towards the edge of the stairs.

"I like to see how long it takes Mycroft to send in the drug squad," Sherlock jumped onto the railing and slid down to the first floor. "So far he's a day and a half late. Don't worry though, John already threw it away," He held his pillow like a pirate's cutlass.

Molly stood at the top of the stairs, bristling with sheer indignation written across her face. "You're dead," she said.

"Mmmm, not rea-" Sherlock was interrupted by Molly careening down the stairs with an ear-piercing battle-cry. Though Molly had the element of surprise on her side, Sherlock soon got a grip on his pillow and began to push her back up the staircase. They were absolutely beating the devil out of each other. Bob Ross would be proud. Concerned, but proud. Somehow in the rush of feathers and fluffiness, Sherlock and Molly began to giggle. Each smack knocked the air out of them, which led to more laughter. Soon, He and Molly were wheezing, out of breath and unable to take anything seriously.

Eventually, Sherlock trail-blazed his way to the stair-top; at which point they collapsed back onto the sofa.

Sherlock let out a deep breath. She imitated his sighing, causing them both to laugh all over again. After regaining her composure, Molly found herself lost in Sherlock's bright eyes and flushed face. Something in the way he locked eyes with her told Molly that he felt it too. There, in that quiet little flat, volumes were spoken between them.

Sherlock made life messy and unpredictable and borderline criminal. And at first, Molly thought that she would simply have to tolerate him. Now, sitting with his arms around her, Molly had a change of heart. She realized that what she wanted was not her "best life," whatever that may be. She knew that what she really wanted was this bizarre life—disembodied feet and all.

"Molly?" Sherlock murmured.

"Hm?"

"Thanks for bringing your knife," He pulled Molly closer to him.

Molly rested her head on his shoulder and smiled. "I love you too, Sherlock."

* * *

 **Author's note:**

Thank you for finishing this two-part story! Ack they are too cute for me to handle. It was so fun to play around with Molly and Sherlock's dynamic as I wrote this. I hope it brightened your day (or evening, depending on your time zone :D). Leave a comment on what you enjoyed most! What surprised you or gave you the warm fuzzies? I'd love to hear from you all.

Yours Truly,

silvannight

"Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." -Matthew 11:28-30


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